


I'll Show you Something Good

by hypatia



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Historic research, Implied Relationships, M/M, Memory Loss, Minor cuddles, Music, no really, so much research, sometimes a song title is just a song title, strange angels - Freeform, that 2008 concert really happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-10
Packaged: 2020-08-14 01:31:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20184004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypatia/pseuds/hypatia
Summary: "...when I realized you were… chasing hints of Heaven not… denying them…”“You dragged me to a children’s concert. The day after I delivered the anti-Christ. And utterly failed to adequately prepare me for 'The Great Gates of Kiev'.”Aziraphale tried, ineffectively, to contain a smirk.“OK. Yes. That might have sounded filthy” admitted Crowley “but you know what I mean.”





	I'll Show you Something Good

**Author's Note:**

> Title and some quotes from Miracles of Love by the Eurythmics, other quotes from Strange Angels by Laurie Anderson  
And Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 3
> 
> Play list at end. Thanks to Resolute for the beta.

**Heaven 2019**

_They say that Heaven is like TV.  
A perfect little world, that doesn’t really need you._

Aziraphale stood, hands bound, in Heaven. Gabriel’s gaze was contemptuous, distant. “You know why you’re here, Aziraphale.” It wasn’t a question, so he simply looked back impassively.

For whatever reason, Gabriel took his lack of response as agreement or simply didn’t care. “So you know where we’re going.” The bastard actually hid a smile. “I’ll ask you to show some dignity and lead the way.” He stepped to the side and gestured expansively in a parody of manners.

Aziraphale neither moved, nor changed expression. A long moment passed, until Gabriel frustrated and impatient motioned to Uriel and Sandalphon. Each grabbed an arm and forced Aziraphale forward.

\---

_The word Heavenly has been used since the 14th century in two manners: First, to denote something “divinely lovely” and second, to refer to planets and stars i.e. heavenly bodies. In the 19th century, it also came to be defined simply as excellent or enjoyable. This use was first recorded in 1874._

\---

**Garden of Eden ~4000 BC Eastern Gate **

“What’s that you’re humming?” asked the Fallen Angel who called himself Crawley as they stood in the rain. He looked like he was trying to memorize the tune, or possibly Aziraphale’s face.

“What?... Err…” Aziraphale hummed a couple more bars self-consciously, trying to place it. “Ah. It’s… the harmony part of a celestial chorus. You’d probably recognize the melody…”

“Oh. Right.” Said Crawley turning away to stare at the rain.

\---

**Athens Greece, 486 BC Dionysia Festival**

“Didn’t expect to see you here angel. Pagan sacrifice to begin the festival and all.”

“Oh! Crowley. You know how it is, upstairs wants to know about these new plays. These… comedies.”

“Going to watch the satyr plays too? Or are they too naughty for angels?”

Aziraphale colored a bit. “I think I need to… be thorough.” He said cautiously. “To be able to send a proper report.”

Crowley raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything.

“We should find our seats, looks like the next play is about to begin.”

“Mind if I join you? Don’t know anyone else here.”

Aziraphale considered whether his caution over associating with Crowley overrode his desire for company and decided not being alone won. “Yes… I’d like that.”

Aziraphale thoroughly enjoyed the play, particularly a bit from the chorus that made him smile wistfully, though he couldn’t say why. But when he looked over, Crowley didn’t appear to be paying attention. He was staring into the middle distance, lost in a memory or perhaps a daydream.

\---

**Reykjavic 1208 **

“Didn’t expect to see you here Crowley, religious service and all.”

“Not consecrated ground, just a minor lord’s manor. And if you think humans don’t occasionally give in to temptation during church services, you really haven’t been paying attention.”

“Yes, I suppose.” Said Aziraphale uncomfortably, searching for a change of topic. “They’re charming people. Did you know, their name for the Almighty translates to ‘Smith of the Heavens’?”

“Must have missed that” said Crowley flatly and walked away.

The service began with six men lifting their voices in unaccompanied song. The harmonies echoed and reverberated in the feast hall.

Aziraphale stole a glance at Crowley across the space to see his reaction to the trace of Heaven in the music. Crowley was looking down at his hands, one of which moved slightly as if keeping time with the music. His expression looked faintly puzzled, as if he was trying to remember something.

\---

**Paris 1874 Salon de Refusés**

In the midst of the gallery, Aziraphale found he’d begun weeping. Tears ran down his face, even as a wistful smile played on his lips. The work before him reminded him of… a time very, very long ago. He fumbled for his handkerchief before he noticed Crowley offering his, watching him intently. He thought for a moment that he saw a hint of regret on Crowley’s face, but it vanished before he could be sure. Aziraphale smiled his thanks and wiped his eyes.

“Thank you for the loan my dear,” he said as they exited the hall and he returned Crowley’s handkerchief.

“A pleasure.” Crowley said. “I didn’t expect you’d find anything here so… affecting.”

“Yes.” Aziraphale smiled again in memory. “The piece was… “ he shook his head momentarily at loss for words. “Heavenly.”

Crowley recoiled at the word, then seemed to get a grip on himself. “You mean, Inspired?” he asked pronouncing the capital. Eyes hidden as always, his expression was completely incomprehensible. “Literally… Divine?”

“I think it may have been. Yes. Did you…?”

Crowley faked a smile. Aziraphale had learned to distinguish Crowley’s fake smiles from the, far rarer, genuine article millennia ago. “Must not have been paying attention. Dessert next?”

“That would be splendid” said Aziraphale carefully, accepting the abrupt change of subject. “Lead the way?”

He privately resolved to never again use the word ‘Heavenly’ in Crowley’s presence.

\---

**London 1989 Crowley’s flat **

For some time, Crowley had made a habit of buying fine wine and inviting Aziraphale up to his flat to share it. He always seemed to have some new record playing. Aziraphale mostly ignored the music, not really his taste.

Conversation had paused just now though as he listened to… whoever it was that was singing. A wistful smile on his face.

_Old stories_

_They’re haunting me_

_This is not how I thought it would be_

“Laurie Anderson,” said Crowley watching Aziraphale intently. “Didn’t actually expect that.”

“What?” said Aziraphale, startled out of his reverie.

“I wasn’t completely surprised by Annie Lennox. But I have to admit this was a bit of a shot in the dark.”

“You’re not making any sense Crowley. Who is this Miss Lennox?”

“Singer, musician, band called the Eurythmics. I played one of their albums for you, two, maybe three years ago.”

“Was she the one with the… ah… Ethereal voice? How did it go? _How many sorrows do you try to hide, in a world of illusion that’s covering your mind_.”

“Right, that’s her. She, I expected. Laurie Anderson not so much, despite the embarrassingly appropriate song title.”

“My dear, what are you on about?”

“Hmm? Nothing, just never can guess your reaction to…”

“Bebop?”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Right.”

\---

**London 2008 Royal Festival Hall **

“Angel. It’s nearly lunch time. Why are we at a children’s concert?”

“My dear, I know you enjoy the London Philharmonic, the performance is just an hour, and we could both use a distraction from… err… what to do about the… baby.” They settled themselves into their seats.

“So a venue filled with posh children with their families, and posher children with their nannies, seemed like a good bet?” Crowley glanced at the program. “Don’t recognize this title. One piece with many smaller pieces? Wait. Is this one of those modern atonal ones you always squirm through pretending to enjoy?” Crowley grinned. “I _adore_ those. But why would they play that for a children’s concert?”

“You _took credit_ for those.” Aziraphale smiled back, pleased by Crowley’s good humor. “It isn’t, but I think you’ll enjoy it all the same.”

The piece began with a trumpet, clear and bright. A familiar, wistful smile settled on Aziraphale’s face.

Crowley only realized he’d seized hold of the arm rest between them, his knuckles whitening, when Aziraphale placed his hand gently over Crowley’s. With an effort, he relaxed his hand – arm – shoulder – body and released his grip.

Aziraphale clasped their fingers together and held them thus until the final notes crashed over them like a wave and it was time to applaud.

“Angel, that was… it was Heavenly. Wasn’t it?” Crowley said in a whisper.

Aziraphale nodded, searching Crowley’s face. “Should I have warned you?”

Crowley looked away for a moment, then shook himself and said in a much more normal tone. “Nah. ‘ssss fine.” He stared at the ceiling for a moment. “The title made me think of the art we saw in Paris that time, when was it?”

“1874” said Aziraphale, pleased Crowley remembered. “The impressionists at…”

“The Salon de Refusés” finished Crowley.

“Yes, they’d fallen out of favor with the Salon de Paris and the rejected artists showed there…” He winced at his choice of words but Crowley didn’t seem to notice. “The program said this piece was also written, quite quickly, in 1874, though it wasn’t published or orchestrated until years later.”

Crowley nodded. “Right.” He paused. “Still lunch time, not quite one o’clock. Shall we?”

“I’d be delighted.”

\---

**London 2019 A.Z. Fell and Co. **

Aziraphale and Crowley sat together in the bookshop, sipping wine. Aziraphale was comfortably seated on the couch like a normal person. Crowley had turned sideways to sprawl against the arm rest. He didn’t quite have room to stretch his legs without ending up in Aziraphale lap, so he’d removed his shoes and opted for bent legs and tucking his feet under Aziraphale’s leg. Aziraphale held a glass of wine in one hand and curled the other around Crowley’s ankle affectionately.

They’d realized that there would come a time when they needed to know what each was supposed to have experienced in Heaven or Hell. To avoid apparent memory gaps, they’d sat down to ‘debrief’ while the experience was still fresh.

“Debrief?” What. On. Earth. Since when do you talk like that Angel?”

“Hmm? Oh. Odd moment while I was discorporated. They tried to stick me in with the rank and file for the “big battle” and…” he waved a hand, indicating that something had affected his speech patterns. Crowley nodded understanding. Both of them tended to instinctively blend in wherever they found themselves, picking up language and colloquialisms (though somehow Aziraphale’s always seemed just a touch out of date), like humans picked up spare change.

It was late evening. They’d covered the basics and finished a bottle and a half of Cote de Rhone.

Aziraphale hesitated, then asked. “I’ve never been to hell of course. It’s a reality I’m not a part of. I had no idea what to expect beyond what you told me, but you’ve… was Heaven… was it like what you remember?”

Crowley froze. Pain? Longing? Flickered across his face and Aziraphale thought he might reach for his sunglasses. But he simply closed his eyes for a long moment.

Aziraphale regretted the question instantly, he turned to face Crowley and laid a hand on his knee in an attempt at comfort. “My dear, I’m sorry. I should not have asked…”

“No, Aziraphale, it’s… it’s not that…” Crowley opened his eyes, golden and distant. “The Fallen… we don’t remember Heaven.” There was a long pause. “Being in Heaven. Nothing was familiar. Not one… ha… blessed thing.”

Now Aziraphale froze. “Don’t… remember?”

Crowley shook his head and made an achingly helpless gesture “_My thoughts remain below, words without thoughts, never to Heaven go”_ he quoted.

Aziraphale blinked. “I don’t think memory is quite what Claudius meant there, but…” He paused. “You flinched the first time you heard that line.”

Crowley looked down at his wine glass. “Didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“Six millennia my dear” said Aziraphale gently. “Well, five and a half at the time I suppose. May I ask…?”

“Yes, but I need more wine first.” Said Crowley and he held out his glass.

“Of course,” Aziraphale topped up their glasses.

“OK.” Crowley took a large swallow and began, “As best as I can tell, my loss of memory is typical among the Fallen.” he sounded unusually clinical, as if perhaps, he’d rehearsed the line. “I know that I was in Heaven and that there are gaps where memories ought to be. I recognize angels that I knew before, though I don’t always recall how I know them, it varies a bit. I remember making the stars. I think because that was… out in the universe, it doesn’t count as Heaven. There are fallen angels who’d never really left Heaven or that we think had very narrow functions who have fewer memories, but that’s rarer.

“Of Heaven itself, the place, the sounds, the feel of the air… that’s all gone. No landscapes. No still lifes. Just a few portraits. Sometimes it feels like the right cue could bring it all back. Like a human trying to remember a word on the tip of their tongue. But it doesn’t work like that.

“Have you ever known a human who had a stroke… or head injury?”

Aziraphale nodded.

“Sometimes they retain a skill but no longer remember learning it or who from… I imagine that’s a bit like what we experienced.”

Aziraphale spoke hesitantly. “There was a member of my club, he remembered his youth, but his more recent memories had become… garbled. Most of the time he didn’t realize that he didn’t remember. I might have the same pleasant chat with him three or four times in an hour. But there were those times he realized his memory was impaired and those were… harder on him.”

“I’ve seen that too. At first, right after the Fall, it was a bit like that. We had to _notice_ that we’d all lost something. Well, something more than the obvious. Once we realized the memories were gone, we retained that knowledge… that there were gaps. I’m _usually_ convinced that I prefer it this way.”

“I don’t understand why this would be part of Falling.”

Crowley shrugged, “Probably in-F-able. But… I have a theory… I think it’s about miracles.”

“Miracles?”

“Yep. Angels, even fallen ones, can affect reality in pretty profound ways.” He took a sip of his wine, then gestured toward the glass with this free hand. The liquid turned clear.

Water, Aziraphale realized.

Crowley pointed at the glass again and the liquid faded back to its original deep red. “Think about what you do, when you do this.”

Aziraphale held his own glass, trying to set aside his confusion and concern for a moment and to follow Crowley’s instruction. He considered the action. Turned wine into water, then water into wine. “There’s a structure, symbol, pattern. Words don’t… Pattern will do. There’s a pattern that I want, and I make it reality.”

“Right” said Crowley “Now, ‘ss that wine the same vintage you poured, or is it something else now?”

Aziraphale took a sip to be certain, then nodded and said “Same vintage… oh, I remembered what it tasted like…”

Crowley nodded “Clever angel. What about a vintage you haven’t tasted?”

Aziraphale thought for a moment and the hue of his wine changed subtly. “I reach for… the part of reality where it exists… and… impose that pattern.”

Crowley nodded again eyes bleak. “And Heaven, is a part of reality that I am separated from.”

“I think I see. You can’t recall or reach, so…”

“So a Fallen Angel, who can’t reach or remember Heaven, can’t create something Heavenly. Not here on Earth, certainly not in Hell.” Crowley drained his glass. “Or at least, that’s as much sense as I’ve ever been able to make of it, and I’m not likely to ever learn more. The Almighty isn’t exactly taking my calls.”

Aziraphale reached out to squeeze Crowley’s hand. “Thank you for telling me, I know it couldn’t have been easy to talk about this.” He realized that Crowley had likely thought a great deal about telling him, to have a simple metaphor like the wine to hand.

“When I got to Heaven” said Crowley in a lighter tone “Gabriel thought it would be funny to make you lead the way to… wherever they planned to execute you. I couldn’t remember the way, so I made them drag you.”

Aziraphale nodded his approval. “What does he have up his arse?”

Crowley grinned. “Ineffable.”

They sat in silence for a few moments, then Aziraphale released Crowley’s hand and looked at him thoughtfully.

“But Crowley, there’s another way to change reality.”

Crowley tilted his head as Aziraphale continued. “We can create things that don’t exist in any reality.” He gestured at his wine glass and colors roiled within it for a moment before settling on a yellow that, perhaps coincidentally, matched Crowley’s eyes, which widened.

Aziraphale sipped whatever it was that he’d… manifested. Then he chuckled, shaking his head and making a face before changing it back to its original red. “I can imagine a thing, and it… becomes. I create the pattern.”

Crowley smiled at Aziraphale, a rare, true, warm smile. He set his wine glass aside. “Very true. That’s where you come in.”

“Me?”

Crowley held out his hand.

Aziraphale reached out.

He was swept into a shared _something_.

_ Strange angels, singing just for me… _

_ I’ll show you something good, when you open your mind._

There were snatches of song, couplets of poetry, images of art, dialogue from plays, memory after memory, six millennia of sensations.

It should have been overwhelming. Instead, it was profoundly serene. This was every experience that Aziraphale and Crowley had shared that had reminded Aziraphale of Heaven. Collected? Compiled? Into _something_. _Something_ that could, for a short while, rival Heaven for its tranquility and beauty and joy.

“How.” Floating in this, _something_. Crowley’s presence beside him was warm and radiant.

“You gave me this Aziraphale.”

_Something_ faded. They were back in the bookshop, holding hands on a battered couch.

Crowley shifted closer to Aziraphale so that they held each other, foreheads touching. “I watched for Heaven in your face, and wove together the threads.”

“My dear,” Aziraphale breathed, blinking as his eyes filled. He reverently brushed tears from Crowley’s cheek.

Neither moved for a long while.

Aziraphale drew back finally to ask “But there’s something missing from… that. I know the bookshop isn’t… when I realized you were… chasing hints of Heaven not… denying them…”

“You dragged me to a children’s concert. The day after I delivered the anti-Christ. And _utterly_ failed to adequately prepare me for _The Great Gates of Kiev._”

Aziraphale tried, ineffectively, to contain a smirk.

“OK. Yes. That might have sounded filthy” admitted Crowley “but you know what I mean.”

Aziraphale’s eyes twinkled, then softened again. “I tried to create something here, for you. Something that wasn’t just a fleeting moment. Someplace where you could find if not Heaven, at least… home. I thought I’d succeeded, but where are the times we’ve spent together here? Or…?” he raised an eyebrow and glanced upward, indicating the bedroom above.

Crowley smiled again. “I keep those separate Angel. Heaven can’t compare.”

And he offered Aziraphale his hand once more.

_ Well it was one of those days, _  
_ larger than life,_  
_ when your friend came to dinner_  
_ and they stayed the night_

_ The miracle of love, _  
_ will take away your pain,_  
_ when the miracle of love,_  
_ comes your way again._

**Author's Note:**

> PlayList:  
Iceland [ Heyr Himna Smidur ](https://youtu.be/e4dT8FJ2GE0)  
Crowley's Flat [ Strange Angels ](https://youtu.be/oTYuLV0wsMI)  
and [ Miracle of Love ](https://youtu.be/yOGD1WkJJok)  
Concert [ Pictures at an Exhibition ](https://youtu.be/syLm-9JyhuY)


End file.
